


Two Lost Souls (Swimming In A Fish Bowl)

by Lothiriel84



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:11:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s not nursing a broken heart, no matter what everybody seems to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Lost Souls (Swimming In A Fish Bowl)

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 3x02. The title is a quote from the song _Wish You Were Here_ by Pink Floyd.

They’re watching him all the time, and they think he hasn’t noticed.

Of course he has – he’s Sherlock Holmes after all – but he can’t see the point in letting them know. That’s why he patiently endures Mrs Hudson fussing over him, and spends his evenings playing board games with Mycroft.

He’s not nursing a broken heart, no matter what everybody seems to believe. John Watson was a good friend, but he hardly needs him now that he has a family of his own; that’s all there is to say about it.

Lestrade is doing his best in acting as a replacement to John; the attempt feels just pathetic to Sherlock, and yet for once he doesn’t have the heart to point it out to the world at large.

Alone is what protects him, that’s what he’s always believed. If he keeps telling himself, perhaps someday it will be true.

 

* * *

 

This isn’t the first time she’s argued with Tom, and she suspects it probably won’t be the last.

She likes him, she really does; but he’s just so thick sometimes, and she finds herself wondering. If Sherlock had been around when Tom proposed to her, would she still have said yes?

She’s not sure she would, and the idea scares her somehow. Especially when Sherlock’s brother knocks at her door in the middle of the night.

Molly throws a quick glance at the expensive suit he’s wearing; Mycroft Holmes looks extraordinarily out of place in her living room, and she wonders if she’s having the weirdest of dreams.

“He needs someone to look after him,” that’s all he says, and she squirms under his piercing gaze.

“Why?”

“He’s in a fragile state of mind, I’m afraid he’s going to relapse.”

Drugs, that’s what Mycroft is hinting at; however, it’s not what she intended to ask.

“I mean, why me?”

“Because he seems to trust you,” he replies with a shrug, then walks away.

 

* * *

 

If Molly Hooper was a dog, he’s pretty sure she would be wagging her tail now.

“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually need a babysitter.”

She almost drops the cup of coffee she’s made especially for him – black, two sugars – and gives him one of her guilty looks. “I never thought you did.”

“But somebody else clearly does. Who sent you here, Mycroft?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” she says, and it’s clear as day that she’s lying.

“Tell my brother to mind his own business. Go fuss over your fiancé now.”

He waits until she bolts for the door, then lights himself a cigarette – ignoring the unfamiliar sense of guilt that has settled onto his stomach.

 

* * *

 

Tom is mad at her when she finally admits the reason why she’s so upset.

“I can’t do this, Molly. Not when you’re still at his beck and call.”

“I am not,” she replies indignantly. “It was his brother that asked me to check on him.”

“That hardly changes anything, don’t you think?”

She’s on the verge of tears now, though she struggles to keep her voice steady. “What do you mean?”

“Time to choose a side, Molly. It’s either him or me.”

“You know what? Go to hell, Tom,” she snaps at last, tears running freely down her cheeks.

She cries herself asleep that night, the engagement ring like a burden on her finger.

 

* * *

 

“You always seem so fond of goldfishes. I’ve no idea why you sent her away.”

He only snatches the tweezers from his brother’s hand. “Leave her alone, Mycroft.”

His brother wins the game, and he does his best to ignore the smug look on his face. He’s losing his focus, his mind too wrapped up in sentiments he really can’t afford to have.

John. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. Molly. They were like family to him; but things change, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

 _My brother is an idiot_ , he texts Molly that night. _And I’m probably one too_ , he adds when he gets no reply.

He’s about to fall asleep when a text alert comes through.

_Tom and I just broke up._

He stares at the phone for quite a long time, but he just seems unable to work out what he’s supposed to reply.

 

* * *

 

She’s sitting on her sofa, watching Sherlock as he rummages the cupboards looking for sugar.

“Here you are,” he says at last, presenting her with a cup of tea. She wants to tell him she appreciates the gesture, but she’s afraid she’s going to start crying again if she does as much as open her mouth.

And Sherlock Holmes is not good at handling emotional people, she’s well aware of that.

“Do you want me to have a word with Tom?” he asks at last, and she thinks it’s rather sweet of him.

“No, it’s okay. I’m fine, really,” she lies, but for once he doesn’t bother to contradict her.

“I wish Mrs Hudson was here. She would know how to comfort you.”

Molly gives him a watery smile and pats the seat next to her. They spend the rest of the day watching _Murder, She Wrote_ reruns; she actually bursts out laughing when Sherlock points out that they should arrest Jessica Fletcher for mass murder.

She laughs and cries at the same time, and feels incredibly better afterwards.

 

* * *

 

“Have you ever been in love with John?”

“Excuse me?” he says, not sure where that came from. People used to talk, but he’s never pinpointed Molly as one to give credit to idle gossip.

“Well, it definitely looks like you’re pining after him, you know.”

“He was my friend – my best friend, I presume. Well, technically still is, given the fact that he’s not actually dead.”

“But you miss him, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he huffs in frustration. “I used to miss my goldfish when it died, but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t in love with it.”

“So you had a goldfish,” she says slowly, staring at him with sudden interest.

“I was a kid,” he replies defensively, but he’s almost relieved because she’s not crying anymore.


End file.
